“Here, Waeran,” said Brega, setting down the lantern and his pack, and uncoiling a rope, “remove your pack and tie this to your waist, then throw the loose end to me; I will anchor you if you fall short.”
With three running strides, Brega sprang across. Tuck threw the Dwarf the coil of rope, one end tied to the Warrow’s waist. When Brega had looped it over his shoulders and had taken a firm grip, he nodded to the buccan.
Tuck took one last look at the black gap, trying to banish the thought of being sucked down into a monstrous maw, and ran and leapt with all his might. He cleared the gap by a good two feet.
The packs and lantern were tossed across, then Gildor and lastly Galen leapt the fissure, and they strode onward, leaving the hideous suck of the Drawing Dark behind.
Deeper under the dark granite of Grimspire they strode, the path ever pitching downward, corridors and branchings splitting outward from the passage they trod, unexpected cracks yawning in the floor, though none the width of the Drawing Dark. And the farther they went, the more Tuck’s heart pounded in vague apprehension.
“It is the Dread, Tuck,” said Gildor, noting the perspiration beaded upon the Waerling’s lip. “We stride towards him now, and the fear will grow.”
Onward they went through the shadowy maze, coming to a great oval chamber, “eleven miles from the Door,” said Brega. This hall, too, was enormous: nearly three-hundred yards in extent, two-hundred at its widest. Straight across the floor they strode, out the far side.
Still the passage pitched downward, and Tuck was most weary, his steps beginning to lag. Long had this “day” been, for it had begun many hours past with the attempt to cross Quadran Pass.
“When next we come to a chamber, we will rest,” said Galen, “for worn-out legs will not bear us swiftly if fleetness ever becomes our need.”
But they tramped four more miles through the black tunnels, downward past splits and forks and joinings, before coming to another chamber, this one also huge. Brega held high the lantern and Gildor smiled in relief and pointed. “This, too, I remember, for here is where we stopped to take water.”
Tuck peered past Gildor to see a chamber nearly round, two-hundred yards across. And by the phosphorescent glow of the Dwarven lantern he could see a low stone bridge crossing above a clear stream that emerged from the wall to the left and rushed through a wide channel cutting across the west end of the chamber to disappear under the wall to the south. Several low stone parapets beringed the room.
“This is called the Bottom Chamber,” said Brega. “Châkka lore speaks of this bridge o’er the drinking stream. Sweet has been this water in all the Châkka days.”
“Sweet, too, was the Duskrill ere the Dark Mere came to be,” said Gildor. “But now that water has been spoiled by the Hèlarms, and it is foul to the taste and touch. Let us hope the drinking stream remains safe and pure.”
Across the carven arch they went, stopping long enough at the far side to stoop and test and then drink deeply and refill their leather water-bottles with the cold, clean, crystalline liquid.
They sat with their backs to one of the stone parapets and took a meal. And as they ate, apprehension coursed through Tuck’s veins; the fear had grown, for they had strode four miles nearer to the Dread.
They had but finished their rations when Gildor softly spoke: “Galen King, I bear woeful news. I could not speak of it before; my grief was too great. Yet now I must say this while I can: I fear the mission to rescue the Lady Laurelin has failed, for Vanidor is dead.”
“Vanidor . . . “ Tuck blurted; then: “How know you this, Lord Gildor?”
“The place where he stood in my heart is now empty.” Gildor looked away, silent for a moment, then spoke on, his voice but a whisper: “I felt his final pain. I heard his last cry. Evil slew him.”
Gildor rose up and walked into the shadows. And now all the company knew why the Elf had fallen to his knees, whelmed, crying, “Vanidor!” in that dire instant when the Krakenward had struck.
After a moment Galen, too, arose and went into the shadows, following Gildor’s steps. And they stood and spoke softly, but what they said, Tuck did not know as tears slid down his face.
And Brega sat with his hood cast over his head.
~
Again Gildor stood guard while the others slept; and the sad eyes of the Elf watched the faint ruby flicker running along Bale’s edges, the sword whispering of evil afar.
After but six hours’ respite, once more they took up the trek.
~
From the Bottom Chamber they took a southeasterly exit that curved away to the east as they followed the course of the corridor. Now the floor rose upward as they tramped on, and still crevices and tunnels bore away to left and right.
Three miles they marched, and Gildor stopped where a large corridor came in from the south. He stood unsure and spoke with Brega, but the lore of the Dwarf was of little or no help. They stepped southward along this large corridor to enter a great side hall, and Gildor shook his head and led them back out to follow the eastward way instead.
Still the passage sloped upward and curved unto the north, and along this section there were no side tunnels nor crevices cleaving away.
Three more miles they strode, to be confronted by four passages: the left way was wide and straight and sloped downward; the right-hand passage, too, was wide, only it bore on upward; the two middle ways were twisting and narrow, one bearing up, the other down. To the immediate left a stone door stood open.
“Ach: I cannot remember,” said Gildor, looking at the four ways before him.
“No matter which of the four you choose,” said Brega, “they all lead into Ravenor.”
“Stormhelm?” asked Tuck. “But I thought we walked beneath the stone of Grimspire.”
“Look, Waeran, and see,” pointed Brega. “Here is the black granite of Aggarath, while there is the rudden stone of Ravenor. Yes, here we leave the dark rock of what you call ‘Grimspire’ to trod the rust red of ‘Stormhelm.’“
In spite of the growing feeling of disquiet as they had trod eastward, still Tuck’s heart gave a leap of hope. “Isn’t the Dawn-Gate upon the flanks of Stormhelm?” At Brega’s nod: “Then we have come to the mountain that holds our gateway eastward.”
“Ah, but Friend Tuck,” said Brega, “though we have come twenty-one miles under the rock of Aggarath, still we must stride twenty-five or thirty miles more beneath the red stone of Ravenor ere we can walk in the open again.”
Tuck’s heart fell to hear these distances, and plummeted even further when Gildor said, “Twenty-five or thirty miles if I can find the way, but much longer if I cannot.”
Galen spoke: “Let us rest and take some food while you try to recall the way, Lord Gildor.”
At the Elf’s nod, Brega led them through the open stone door into a small chamber, no more than twenty-feet square with a low ceiling—the first small room they had seen in Drimmen-deeve.
“Oi!” exclaimed Brega, holding up the lantern.
Centered in the room, a great chain dangled down through a narrow, grate-covered, square shaft set in the ceiling and passed through a like grate placed in the floor, the huge links appearing out of the constricting blackness above and disappearing into the darkness of the strait shaft below.
Brega examined the iron-barred grill set in the floor. “’Ware. This grate is loose, though at one time it was anchored firmly in the stone.”
Tuck looked at the small chamber in puzzlement, and at the narrow shaft piercing the room, the massive chain, and the grids covering the openings above and below. “What is it for, Brega: the shaft and the chain: And why the iron bars?”
The Dwarf merely shrugged. “I know not its purpose, Friend Tuck. Air shafts, window shafts, shafts to mine ores, well shafts for water, holes to raise and lower things: these I understand. Yet this construction is beyond my knowledge, though other Châkka could, no doubt, explain its purpose. As to the bars, all I can guess is that they are
set there to keep something in.”
“Or to keep something out,” added Gildor.
“Is this the Lost Prison?” Tuck’s heart skipped a beat.
“Nay, Tuck,” said Gildor, gesturing at the stone door and iron bars. “Such a flimsy construction would not hold even a determined Ruch, much less thwart the power of an evil Vûlk.”
Brega bristled. “Elf, this room was crafted by Châkka; you exaggerate when you say it could not hold an Ükh . . . though you speak true of the Ghath.”
At the naming of the Dread, Tuck’s heart again raced loudly in his ears.
“I stand corrected, Drimm Brega, and I apologize for my errant mouth.” Gildor bowed to the Dwarf, and Brega inclined his head in return.
They sat and took a bit of mian and water, and Gildor pondered the question of the four corridors: “This I think: Neither of the two middle corridors should be our path, for I know that long ago I trod not their narrow, twisting ways. But as to the far left or right, I cannot say which one we should follow.”
“Does your lore speak ought of this four-fold split, Brega?” asked Galen.
“Nay, King Galen,” answered the Dwarf.
“Then, Lord Gildor,” said Galen, “you must choose one of the two ways and hope we come to something that you recognize.”
Suddenly, a great wash of dread inundated Tuck’s heart, and he gasped in terror. Galen, Gildor, and Brega also blanched. Just as suddenly, the fear was gone, leaving racing hearts behind.
“He knows!” cried Gildor, leaping to his feet. “The Dread knows we are in his domain and casts about, questing for the spark of us.”
“The Ghola,” spat Galen, “they’ve borne the word to him.”
“We must get out!” cried Brega. “We must get out before he finds us!” In haste the Dwarf shouldered his pack and stepped to the door, holding high the lantern as the others scrambled after.
And they stood before the four passages. “Which way, Lord Gildor?” asked Galen. “We cannot delay. You must choose.”
“Then let it be the leftmost,” answered Gildor, “for the way is widest.”
And down the sloping corridor they hastened, matching Tuck’s stride, for the Warrow was smallest and so he set the pace.
And Gildor withdrew flickering Red Bale from its scabbard and bore the sword in the open, its werelight to warn the four should Spaunen come near.
A half mile they went through the smooth-walled carven tunnel, but lo: Gildor’s steps began to slow as if he were reluctant to press onward, yet Bale’s scarlet blade-jewel glinted but lightly.
Another furlong they paced, and then the Elf stopped, and so, too, did the companions, Brega pattering on but a few more steps. “We must go no further this way,” gritted Gildor, his face white.
“But the path is wide and smooth,” growled Brega, pointing to the open passage before them.
“We walk toward a foul place,” responded Gildor. “It has the stench of a great viper pit, though no vipers in it dwell.”
Now Tuck sniffed, and a faint reek of adders hung on the air. “What is it, Lord Gildor: What makes this foetor?”
“I know not for certain, Tuck,” answered the Elf, “yet when I strode the battlefields of the War of the Ban, it clung where Gargoni had been.”
They retraced their steps to the corridors at the Grate Room, and this time they took the right-hand passage. And as they stepped upon its upward sloping floor, again the pounding fear swept across them and away, leaving Tuck trembling, his legs weakened.
“He searches.” Gildor’s voice was tight, and he spoke to faces drawn grim.
Up the passage they strode, Tuck’s legs continuing to set the pace as they marched through a delved corridor, the stone arching above them. Swiftly along the carven tunnel they went, but slowly its character changed: the walls became rougher, less worked by Dwarven tools. And then a small crack appeared along the floor and swiftly widened to become a chasm to their left, yawning black and bottomless; the floor they strode along narrowed, becoming a broad shelf lipping the fissure; and then the shelf constricted to a narrow ledge, and they sidled for scores of feet along the wall, the gulf yawning below them. At last they came once more to a wide floor, and Tuck sighed in relief as he stepped onto the broad stone.
At that moment dread fear again shocked through the four as the Gargon tried to sense them, his questing power coursing through the stone halls of Black Drimmen-deeve.
Upward sloped the way, and wide cracks appeared in the floor, and Tuck had to leap over three- and four-foot-wide crevices: long jumps for one who was only three-and-a-half feet tall.
But finally the floor smoothed out, and once more they strode through an arched tunnel, and after three hours of walking, leaping, and sidling—going some six miles in all —they came to a great round chamber, and Tuck asked for a short rest.
Tuck sat and massaged his legs, yet his heart was filled with dire foreboding, for they had come six miles closer to the Dread. To distract his own mind, Tuck said, “Well, now I have gone from being a Thornwalker to being a Deevewalker.”
“Ai, you have named us, Tuck,” said Gildor, “and if our tale is ever told, they will call us the Walkers of the Deeves.”
“Ar!” growled Brega. “Deevewalkers we are. But of us four, only I have long dreamed of striding the corridors of Kraggen-cor, and now it is so, yet I would have it otherwise. For, I come not marching in triumph, but instead slink through furtively. And if I live to tell of this journey to my kindred, this is what I will say: I have walked in Kraggen-cor, a bygone Realm of might; but its light is gone, and dread now stalks the halls.”
Again the pounding fear washed over them, stronger now than before, and all four leapt to their feet as if to fly; then it passed onward, and Tuck unclenched his fists.
They made a circuit of the round chamber, and Gildor spoke with Brega and the eastward way was chosen, for its path was broad and worn by the travel of many feet.
Forward they strode and the floor was smooth and level.
“Is there ought the Gargon fears?” puffed Tuck, stepping along swiftly upon his Warrow legs.
“Nought that I know of,” answered Gildor, “else we would use it against him.”
“He fears the Sun,” said Galen, striding at Tuck’s side, “and perhaps he fears the power of Modru, yet neither of these are at our beck to stave off the Horror.”
“What about Wizards?” asked Tuck. “Lord Gildor, you spoke of them as fending Gargons in the Ban War.”
“The Mages of Xian have not been seen since that time,” responded Gildor, “except perhaps by Elyn and Thork in the Quest of Black Mountain: it is said they found the Wizardholt.”
Onward they strode, the lantern casting swaying shadows along the hall, its light revealing passages and arched openings to the side.
“Is there ought that Modru fears?” asked Tuck, still keeping the pace for all.
“The Sun,” answered Galen, “and Gyphon.”
“Too, it is said that Modru loathes mirrors,” added Gildor.
“Mirrors?” grunted Brega, surprised.
“I think he sees something of his true soul cast back from the glass,” answered Gildor. “And it is told that he cannot abide his reflection in a pure silver mirror, for then his image is stripped of all disguise and stands revealed before him; yet it is also said that those who have seen Modru’s reflection in an argent speculum are driven foaming mad forever.”
The passage they followed curved to the northward, and their hard stride bore them along its wide level floor. They had come nearly two miles from the Round Chamber, as Brega had dubbed it, when Gildor held up a hand. “Hssst!” he whispered sharply. “I hear iron-shod feet; and look: Bale speaks of evil. Shutter the lamp, Brega.”
Quickly, Brega snapped the hood down upon the lantern, and they stood in the dark hall listening. Ahead they could hear the clatter of scaled armor, and the tread of many feet slapping upon the stone. And the light of burning brands could b
e seen bobbing in the distance, growing brighter as a force of many came toward them. And Tuck’s heart hammered in fear.
“The Dread sends Rukha and Lôkha searching these halls for us,” said Galen, his voice grim.
Brega raised the hood of the lantern a crack and searched for an exit to bolt through. “This way,” he whispered, and they entered a narrow corridor bearing eastward.
The hall they followed was but lightly worked and had the look of a natural cavern. And there were occasional splits and fissures in the floor; most could be stepped over, but at times Tuck would have to spring across, though none of the others did, being taller than the Warrow.
They strode a mile and stopped to listen, and Gildor’s sharp senses told them some of the Spaunen followed down the corridor behind.
Onward the four continued, and the further east they went the more finished the passageway became. Gildor kept a sharp eye on Bale’s blade-jewel; yet the red glimmer told that the evil was yet distant, though each step they took caused the fear to increase, for still they strode toward the Gargon.
Again, pounding dread swept across them, causing Tuck to gasp. And when it was past, on eastward they went.
At last they came unto a broad hall and cautiously peered in, looking for the flame of Rûcken torches: the hall stood dark and empty. Brega threw the lamp shutter wide, and they saw by its glow that the chamber was enormous: nearly four-hundred yards long, two-hundred across. The four had come in through the west side. “Ai!” said Gildor, softly, “I remember this place, though then it was that we came in through the far north portal. Yes, and now our path lies there to the east.”
“How far, Lord Gildor, how far to the Dawn-Gate?” asked Galen as they strode across the chamber.
“Perhaps fifteen miles, perhaps twenty,” answered Gildor, “I cannot say for certain.” Gildor spoke to Brega: “Drimm Brega, how far have we come?”
“Two and thirty miles from the Dusken Door,” answered the Dwarf with a certainty that brooked no dispute.
“Then, if I can find the way,” responded Gildor, “we are more likely to be fifteen miles than twenty from the distant exit.”
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